


Things

by sageness



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Canon - TV, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-25
Updated: 2006-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Here, I got it," John says, rounding the examination table.</p><p>"The contaminated clothing needs to be destroyed, so—" Beckett jerks his head up; someone's shouting for him from the other end of the infirmary. Over his shoulder he calls, "Thanks lad."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things

"Is he…?" John trails off, frowning.

"He has a mild contact allergy to the algae. No more than hives at worst, and hopefully not even that."

John sighs. "Well, that's good, I guess."

"Aye." Beckett looks down at the pile of discarded clothing and equipment. It's stained green with slimy, almost gelatinous goop. He sighs and shakes his head wearily. "Rodney, Rodney..."

"Here, I got it," John says, rounding the examination table.

"The contaminated clothing needs to be destroyed, so—" Beckett jerks his head up; someone's shouting for him from the other end of the infirmary. Over his shoulder he calls, "Thanks lad."

John shakes out and sorts the clothes. He puts the clothing and organics to be incinerated on the right. On the left, he makes a pile of things Rodney might want to wash off and keep...or trade, if he can. Three power bars. Two power bar wrappers. Sixteen hard candies: butterscotch, cinnamon, peppermint, chocolate mint, cherry, and watermelon. Fourteen candy wrappers. One multi-tool with twelve designed functionalities and three more that Rodney apparently jury-rigged into place. One pocket PC with extra stylus. Four data crystals. Two magazines of .9mm hollow-point ammo. Two .9mm bullets, loose. One pocketknife, not as large or sharp as it should be. Two paperclips, small. One package of miniature sanitizing hand-wipes, empty. Two ballpoint pens. One sharpie. One package of mouthwash gel strips, military issue. One condom, Inspiral, definitely not military issue. One single-use packet of lube, ID Glide, interesting. His radio earpiece. A packet of airplane peanuts, American Airlines, honey-glazed—

"Is there a reason you're inventorying my things, Colonel?" Rodney asks in a tight voice. He's damp and angry and looks pinker than usual in his stark white scrubs. John can smell the weird hospital soap on his skin.

John waves at the pile on the right. "Beckett says the contaminated stuff has to go. Biohazard."

"And you…"

John smiles. "Didn't want you to have to touch it?"

Rodney gives him a long, icy look. "Thanks," he says, and turns on his heel. He returns from the washroom a moment later with a towel in hand and scoops up the left-hand pile. "This was everything, right? Nothing left in any of the pockets?"

"That's it."

"Even the thigh pockets of the pants?"

"Got it."

Rodney searches John's face for a second, checks over the contents of his towel suspiciously, and casts a lingering eye over the ruined pile of his clothes. He says, "Damn it, I liked that jacket."

"You have another one," John says.

Rodney lifts his chin. "We all have our preferences."

John nods, unable to think of anything to say, and then Rodney and his things are gone.


End file.
